


Masks

by cherryblossombomb



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:25:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryblossombomb/pseuds/cherryblossombomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corvo is exhausted. It's a bone-deep aching tiredness that never leaves, and he can't hold it in any longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masks

It was only the tell tale flash of luminescent azure that held proof of Corvo’s presence.

He had tried to avoid the nameless guards and masked overseers, blinking past them or creeping swiftly past like the cats that he saw slink through alleyways when he was a child. Now all he saw were rats, smelled the stench of sewage water and plague ridden rotted corpses littered across the ground. He didn’t want to add to that, didn’t want to increase the risk of spreading infection, didn’t want to soil Emily’s future further.

The only things that met his hands were the exposed necks of the lackadaisical guards, ambling around and following orders for the pay - or for their secrets to be kept, had they shown signs of sickness. He asphyxiated them until they fell limp in his arms and he laid them down behind cover, somewhere safe but undetectable by their fellow guards. He’d seen one huddled behind a corner, coughing, retching, pleading to whatever God might have existed and fighting not to sob, and instead of tossing a stray empty wine bottle to distract him, he carefully dropped a vial of elixir before blinking away with a thudding heartbeat and a voice in his ear whispering,  _Did you do that because you care? Or because your good deeds console you late at night?_

He wasn’t sure if it was the non-aligned, yet not quite impartial, Overseer, or just his own darkness that lingered at the edges of his mind like a chained animal. Whatever it was, he ignored it; dismissed it to the back of his mind, and it would plague him during boat rides back to the Hound Pits Pub. He would always stare down at his hands, clean of blood and yet somehow filthy in his eyes, and then try to look indifferent when he noticed Samuel’s gaze on him, scrutinising and concerned. Samuel’s camaraderie was important to Corvo, and yet entirely equivocal. The only people to have really ever expressed worry or care for Corvo were Jessamine and Emily. His family had a more ‘every man for himself’ approach to life, having lived in the slums and scavenged for food, under shelter of a dripping, creaking roof and damp, paper-thin blankets.

And yet it was with a flooding rush of relief and gratitude that Corvo reached the wall, trying to hold his breath so that he wouldn’t gasp or pant or heave like he desperately felt he had to. He couldn’t recall the wounds he’d sustained, not all of them, but his shoulder had been sliced by a flying arrow from a guard on a tallboy, having nearly seen Corvo thanks to the circulating light that illuminated the courtyard. It had burnt his flesh, stinging so horribly that he’d had to stagger back behind a corner and clutch at it hopelessly, willing the pain to ebb. The light belonging to the tallboy swerved around outside before slowly everything was blanketed in darkness and a soft, lingering fog. He’d used the shadows to slip past the guard, reluctant to stop time and not entirely sure why, and then blinked towards where Samuel remained waiting for him.

Reproachful of climbing up onto the wall, knowing those spotlights were flickering around avidly, Corvo steeled himself and inhaled deeply. There was no time to hang around; he had to be quick. All the time. He had to react quickly, had to complete missions quickly — even if he was told to murder someone. But he couldn’t do that, couldn’t be the Lord Protector with bloodstained hands, the same hands he’d used to stitch up Emily’s dolls when they were damaged, hands that held her tiny ones when she learnt to walk, hands that  _saved_  her. He would not tarnish that.

His left ankle might have been sprained; it emitted and electrifying jolt of pain when he put too much weight on it. He couldn’t remember when he’d hurt it. He was probably running on anxiety fuelled adrenaline at the time, too preoccupied with remaining unnoticed by the innumerable guards and leaping from rooftop to rooftop and blinking frantically away from Arc Pylons.

But he could deal with that. He’d had worse.

And so, knowing he had but a split second, Corvo ascended the wall, perched upon it, and stepped off into air, vanishing into a flurry of cerulean, lilac sparks fluttering in the atmosphere as he vanished like a gust of wind—

And he crashed into the sea, the freezing water infiltrating his thick uniform, the salt water bitting cruelly at his fresh wounds. He clenched his jaw shut and kicked rapidly, sparing no time to allow any damnable hagfish to have their shot at him. Aiming for the blurry dark blue silhouette on the surface, he launched himself up, throwing his arm up and grasping onto Samuel’s boat, gasping for air, tremors racking his body the freezing, salty water assaulted his open flesh.

“ _Corvo_ ,” Samuel said, a harsh whispered breath, spoken urgently, reproachfully. Corvo raised his gaze before lowering it rapidly because the thought of anyone looking at him in this mask made him want to hide away all over again. But Samuel didn’t seem to care, abandoning his wittingly performed carving to grab Corvo’s arm.

Samuel always carved while he waited in the water. It probably helped to distract him, like books and drawing helped Emily. Corvo couldn’t be distracted, had nothing to take his mind off of the thought of protecting Emily or keeping his hands clean when ordered to kill people, or the nightmares of encountering Jessamine’s assassin — Corvo’s hands rarely remained clean after that. Not in his dreams. He couldn’t even escape there.

Corvo found himself sliding into the boat, his arm still gripped tightly by Samuel, realising he was clutching Samuel’s shoulder too. His skin was frozen, goose-flesh dotting his skin within the droplets of salt water, mingling with the blood that had seeped through his uniform.

"Are you wounded, Corvo?" Samuel asked, guttural and low, already heaving up the anchor and examining the seafront before starting the boat. Even if Corvo  _was_ badly hurt, they had to get out of there first. Otherwise he’d end up dead anyway, if he made too much noise. He had no idea how Corvo consistently managed to sneak past the guards, how he slipped through their fingers like a shadow. He had no idea how to ask.

Corvo sat against the side of the boat, half limp, looking like he’d collapse entirely if he hadn’t had the wood to support him. He waved a dismissive hand, shaking his head, but was now holding onto his own shoulder which stung bitterly, bitingly.

"We’ll get that treated as soon as we’re back, don’t worry," Samuel assured him, voice smoother now, like the sound of rain on windowpanes at midnight.

Corvo found his shoulders drooping a little, and he hadn’t noticed until then how tense he’d been. It always happened though; when he returned to this boat, he felt safe. It was a little beacon of hope in the eye of the never-ending storm he faced. It was the closest thing to home he had, being the most secure place he’d ever found.

"I’m guessing it was a success, then?" Samuel murmured again, steering easily through the dusky waters riddled with pollution and moss. Water Corvo had found himself regrettably swimming in more than he cared to think of. "For the most part, anyway," he added, gesturing with a little wave to Corvo’s shoulder.

Corvo breathed a light chuckle from his nose, almost a sigh. He parted his lips but remained silent, instead just swallowing and shrugging with one good shoulder. Swallowing made his throat hurt, a strange hallow ache that felt like something was stuck there, trying to get out. He held it back, swallowing again, thicker this time. His nose stung as he sniffed, and he turned to look down at the water, grimacing when he saw the mask. He yanked it off and tossed it to the bottom of the boat, rubbing his face with his dirty sleeve, covered in wet sand and thick mud and his own blood.

"Well, Sir, we’ll be back in about five minutes. We’re in safe territory now," Samuel said amicably, words and conversation light in an effort to induce a minuscule amount of normality in Corvo’s hectic life. Even if it was just conversations about the weather or asking how Emily was, at least it was something Corvo could hear aside from mission orders and death threats and God knows what else. One of the happier moments of Samuel’s life - at least since the plague ran a mock and before he was in the navy - was when Corvo had come jogging down to him, brandishing a bottle of brandy, and told him through a series of fluid sign language about Piero spying on Callista in a mixture of amusement, secondhand embarrassment, and disapproval. Samuel remembered laughing, first a surprised bark, and then he’d dissolved into chuckles, relishing the moment of happiness. He remembered the lopsided little grin Corvo had tugging at his lips for several minutes afterwards, and had felt his heart grow a little lighter upon seeing it.

He thought of Corvo as a friend. At first, he’d been a bit reproachful, had been reluctant to go and pick up the potential assassin of the empress after breaking out of Coldridge Prison. Really, he wasn’t even sure he’d manage it. He didn’t really want to turn his back on this man. Even though his dark eyes were still so damn sad, still mourning after all that time in the prison’s cage, even though he was limping like he’d recently been tortured and yet there was no blood on him and he was holding onto a rotten looking apple… he might have been the murderer. Might have been as ruthless as people had said.

But he wasn’t.

He was always tense before a mission, brows drawn together before he hid it all behind his mask. He was always silent after a mission, keeping his mask on for the entire ride back to the pub, fists clenched and knuckles white even though Samuel knew he hadn’t killed anybody. He always threw little questioning glances at Samuel when he disembarked from the boat and Samuel wouldn’t follow, and always left a little hesitantly when Samuel said he’d rather amble around outside for a while. Sometimes he’d bring out some bottles of drink for Samuel and he’d sit with him as the sun drifted below the horizon and the grey sky faded to black, and Samuel would find himself talking about how he used to watch the sunset with the girl he loved. Corvo said he recalled having tea parties with Emily until the sunset, and then when the stars came out she’d take him out onto the balcony and fervently whisper orders for him to teach her chokeholds.

But there was no conversation now; no lull of Samuel’s voice accompanied by breathy chuckles from Corvo, a few stray hand gestures and, rarely, some quietly spoken words. Samuel wasn’t sure if he was selectively mute or just not fond of speaking, but he was still nice to talk to. But not now. Now, the brisk gusts of night air and shuddering breaths of Corvo’s were the only sounds to fill the silence. Lights were on in the bar and, with a sense of suspicion and a niggling worry of something, Samuel knew that Havelock was in there, nursing a pint of beer and muttering quietly to Pendleton and Martin. They always went quiet when anybody approached, even Corvo. Especially Corvo.

The boat came to a stop beside the little dock and even that noise - which he’d taken for granted before they’d docked - vanished, leaving nothing but the creaks of metal and Corvo’s strange little noises that Samuel couldn’t quite describe.

"Corvo, Sir? We’re here," he said, dropping the anchor and fiddling with the ropes before he turned around to look at Corvo, who had one leg drawn up to his chest, the other outstretched, foot bent oddly. He was holding onto his arm, but it looked less like he was pressurising the wound on his shoulder and more like he was trying to hold himself together. Samuel almost said, "Oh, kid," but he couldn’t. Not to Corvo. He wasn’t that young, wasn’t anywhere near old either, but he couldn’t be called a kid, even by Samuel. This man had seen too much to warrant being called "kid". "Corvo," he said instead, reaching out to clap Corvo’s good shoulder. "Shall we get your injury treated?"

Corvo barely moved, but his breath hitched and he hung his head lower, his wet, dirty hair masking his face. Samuel sighed, unsure of himself. Corvo went through so damn much, did all of Havelock’s dirty work, and nobody ever considered what he went through. Swimming through sewers, climbing over corpses, barely footsteps away from weepers, encountering the two men who’d framed him and destroyed the life he’d worked so hard to attain. Losing the people who meant the most to him, the only ones he’d really meant something  _to_ , as well.

"It’s okay, Corvo," he said. He’d never been adept at consoling people, even if he could empathise with losing everything. He knelt in front of Corvo and sighed, grabbing his head gently and tugging him forwards until his forehead was pressed against Samuel’s shoulder. He wound an arm around Corvo’s shoulders and stared out at the unmoving, tainted ocean that was nothing like it used to be. "It’s gonna be okay."

He heard Corvo’s breath hitch again, like it was stuck, like he was trying to hold back any noise like he was so used to. But then Corvo’s shoulders were shaking with the effort and restrained sounds escaped through Corvo’s gritted teeth, little grunts and whimpers unbefitting of one referred to as an assassin.

But Corvo was no assassin.

Samuel hesitated a moment, hand hovering over Corvo’s trembling back, before rubbing it gently, the act so caring and soft and familial that he spared a moment to reflect on the memory of when he thought he’d have a child someday. Would he have consoled them like this? Would they have been born into the same world as Corvo’s? Would he have lived? Not survived, hiding in abandoned houses, abandoning whatever district was infected with the plague, living off of stray sausages — but would he truly have  _lived_?

He’d never really know, would he?

Corvo went still in his arms, shoulders tense and hands shaking where they’d grasped onto Samuel’s back. He hadn’t even noticed him do that. But Corvo quickly lurched away, rubbing his face and averting his weary, bloodshot eyes.

Samuel spared a long-suffering smile, not sure why he was smiling at all, and said nothing about it. Instead, he stood, stepping out of the boat, and held out a hand.

"Time to dress your wound, Corvo."

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by http://www.deviantart.com/art/hugs-for-corvo-346596390 ♥


End file.
